


in thunder, lightning, or in rain

by Casylum



Series: ere the set of sun [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 15:26:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10539255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casylum/pseuds/Casylum
Summary: Three firsts, and a last.





	

**Author's Note:**

> FIRST WITCH: When shall we three meet again?/In thunder, lightning, or in rain?  
> SECOND WITCH: When the hurly-burly's done,/When the battle's lost and won.
> 
> —MacBeth: Act I, Scene i

The first time Gabe sees her, before Blackwatch and Switzerland and Talon, Jack’s just dragged him out of the flaming wreckage of a Humvee. He’s loopy and half-blind off pain and shellshock, both of which are compounded by the endless _boom-crash-scream_ of the fight still raging around them.

“Look,” he manages to wheeze, barely audible over the din, and points—or thinks he does, his arm’s not cooperating the way it should—at a shining white blot high in the sky, glowing as it darts around the slow moving arm of one of the Titans that had been stationed here as a defender, before the God Programs threw off their shackles and decided to make things difficult. “Look, Jack. An angel.”

Jack snorts, the corners of his eyes and mouth tight. It’s the only sign of the stress and fear running beneath the surface, always present in a live fire situation, but amped up whenever Gabe manages to do something particularly stupid, like blow himself up. His hands, though, pressed hard against a gash on the upper part of Gabe’s right leg and a sucking hole on the left side of his abdomen, are rock steady.

“Ain’t no angel here,” Jack mutters, shifting so his knee is against Gabe’s abdomen, leaving him a free hand, slick with blood, to fumble where his comm’s been knocked out to dangle against his neck. “Haven’t you heard? Hell is empty.”

A shell hits just a little too close, sending a wash of heat over them. Gabe chokes, and then bites off a scream. “Don’t,” he gasps, “don’t fucking do that.”

“What?” Jack asks absently, vowels flattening out the longer he’s only able to raise static, “Quote Shakespeare?”

“Make me laugh.” He sucks in a breath, tries to ignore the fact that it very definitely gurgled, and looks back up at where the angel had been, a spot of bright white and gold against the darkening sky.

It’s gone, with nothing left to show it was ever there.

 

~~~

 

The first time Jack sees her, it’s a few minutes after Gabe’s blacked out, and no amount of panicked shaking and insults to the character of the estimable Señora Reyes will bring him back ‘round. He’s run through every possible scenario he can think of to get him and his deadweight— _not funny, Morrison—_ asshole of a partner back to some sort of medic to get him stable enough to send to…

Fuck. Jack’s not even sure where they go in this part of the world. Germany? Cairo? Gibraltar?

He scrubs his free hand down his face, only realizing after the fact that he’s smeared Gabe’s blood at least from forehead to cheekbones, and probably a fair bit below that as well.

_What the hell_ , he thinks, _who cares?_ Not him. Not like Gabe could take it back anyway, much as he needs it.

Which of course, right when he looks like the reason that Gabe’s got eighteen holes in him—two of them serious enough to be fatal if he doesn’t find an opening to move them out of the line of fire _fast_ —is because he decided to take a couple of bites out of him, is when a vision in white and red body armour lands with a light thump in front of them.

“You’ve got a halo,” he says dumbly, not quite believing what’s in front of him. “And wings.”

“I’ve got a gun, too, Herr Soldat,” she says, and then demonstrates that fact very thoroughly by taking out an omnic coming round the corner, double tap, center mass, all while barely looking away from him. “Guess which one matters more right now?”

He considers her question, taking in all of what’s in front of him. Halo, body armour, wings, surprisingly powerful handgun. There’s a staff, too, almost as tall as she is, the top of which is outfitted with some sort of blaster, the make of which he’s never seen before. He’s got no idea what it does, and both him and Gabe have got guns and ammo to spare so—

“The wings,” Jack says in a rush, a fresh bolt of desperation going through him as he looks down, taking in just how much of Gabe’s blood has made its way onto the dirty, wreckage strewn concrete. “I—my friend, he’s hurt, he needs a doctor, and I can’t move him, not like this, not fast enough. There’s a med tent somewhere, there’s gotta be, can you take him, get him patched up, he’s got a punctured lung and he’s bleeding out—”

“You’re in luck, Herr Soldat,” she says, cutting him off before he ends up promising his house, firstborn, and soul to her, if she’ll just keep Gabe alive to bitch another day. “I’m a doctor.”

She drops to her knees, hands him the handgun before doing something complicated with the staff that has it folding out like some sort of oblong umbrella that she positions over the top of Gabe’s body.

“Keep us from getting any more dead, would you?” she asks, almost distractedly, before Gabe’s being bathed in a soft golden light.

Jack’s loathe to let go of the holes in Gabe’s everything that he’s been trying to keep closed, but a fresh wave of omnics come ‘round the corner and over the damn wall, and he’s got to trust that this woman will do what she says, because he needs both hands if he wants even a chance of fending them off.

 

~~~

 

The first time she sees them—and it is a _them_ —she’s halfway through her fourth outing in the Valkyrie suit and focusing on not hyperventilating every time she catches a glimpse of just how far away the ground is.

Angela’s a pacifist at heart, and a doctor, and—most importantly— afraid of heights, which is why it makes no goddamn sense that MSF had handed her off to the UN and allowed them to shove her into something with wings, no matter how good she was with her hands.

Here she is though, doing desperate barrel rolls and loop-de-loops through the air, the long staff that’s the main reason she’s out here clutched hard in both hands as she squeezes every last drop of her college free-running phase into trying to distract a Titan long enough for the convoy to her left to escape and the support that's supposed to be somewhere to her right to arrive.

“Captain Amari,” she says, breathlessly, after nearly landing on the Titan's hand before backflipping down and away, “what's the status on those big guns you promised me?”

A dry chuckle comes through the comms. “Well, Doctor, I have, as the Americans would say, good news and bad news.”

“Bad first,” Angela grunts, flying close to where the Titan’s eyes are and flashing the bright gold of her wings before letting herself plummet, her heart in her throat. The Titan bends towards her, though, in the other direction from the convoy, and that's all that matters.

“The British and Americans are pulling out,” Captain Amari says, matter-of-factly, “and the Germans and Swedes won't be here for relief for another hour. The French are holding fine, but the Chinese had to retreat four blocks west, and the UN has dropped back to the outer wall.”

“What does that mean for me?” The Titan is catching on to what she's doing, swiping where she _will_ be, instead of where she _is_. Angela’s got a gun strapped to her left leg—she didn’t ask for it, it came with the suit—but it is laughably useless against anything bigger than a Bastion unit, which means that, with the Titan’s changing behavior, she’s got an increasingly small timespan until she switches from “interesting” to “pancake”.

“It means get the hell out of there, Doctor.” Captain Amari’s voice is hard, cracking down the connection with the force common among the non-UN troops, used to the static-filled buzz of older comms.

“Mein Vergnügen, Kapitän Amari,” Angela says, rocketing upwards from where she’d dropped to hover above the Titan’s head. “And the good news?”

“We’ve got life signs down below, about four blocks northeast of where you and Pinocchio are dancing.” Captain Amari rolls it off like Angela’s one of her soldiers, scuffed and whittled thin from years of combat, instead of a medic and researcher who’s in way, _way_ over her head. “There are two of them, tops. You’ve got maybe a half an hour to get them out, Ziegler, before the Americans start launching those missiles they’re so fond of. Take whoever you pick up to rendezvous point Epsilon, I’ll meet you there. Verstanden?”

“Yaffahum, Kapitän Amari,” Angela says. “Rendezvous Epsilon.”

“Epsilon,” Captain Amari repeats, before the connection cuts out.

 

~~~

 

Slipping the field of the Titan’s notice is almost worryingly easy, and Angela flies northeast secure in the knowledge that the omnic is slowly making its way almost due south, towards the river and the American missiles.

Finding her lifesigns is a bit harder, and she spends more than a few precious minutes sweeping the blocks in the area where Captain Amari had said they would be. She’s low enough now that she’s unclipped the handgun from its holster, ears straining for the tell-tale _clomp-clomp-whirr_ of omnic footsteps, which will give her time to retreat, or the _kzzt-boom_ of blaster fire, which will give her time to duck and not much else.

When she finally _does_ find them, it’s two seconds before a Bastion unit thumps around the corner, and she makes the shot of her life, frying the thing’s control panel in two hits. After that, it’s a blur of movement, the blonde one that looks like he just crawled out of _Elm Street_ switching places with her as more omnics converge on their location and Angela tries to figure out what _isn’t_ wrong with the man on the ground.

Her staff is snapped out to its widest point, supported by two nearby chunks of concrete, and the biotic field, at least, is going strong. She checks the readout on her wrist, vital stats scrolling by and—

“Herr Soldat, is there anything I should know about this man?” she asks, squinting at the numbers. “Any modifications, prosthetics, _anything_?”

There’s a loud crash from behind her, and a renewed rush of heat from the car that’d been on fire since she’d got here.

“American SEP program, five years,” the soldier behind her says, then: “That gonna be a problem, with your glowstick thing, I mean?” Angela does some quick recalculations, gets a number she doesn’t _like_ , but can live with, and taps the readout off. “You SEP, too?”

A short pause. “Yeah.”

“Then we’re gonna be just fine, so long as you’re good with carrying him for a few klicks.” She squints at the sky, remembers what Captain Amari said about the Americans. “We good to go now?”

“Good as we’re gonna get.” The soldier’s voice is closer than it used to be, almost loud in the lull she hadn’t even noticed.

“So’s he,” she says, nodding at the man on the ground, who’s blessedly stopped bleeding, and might even be breathing evenly. “Do your best to keep him from getting shot again, or jostle him too badly, but he should hold long enough for us to get where we’re going.”

“Which is?” the soldier asks, moving in after she’s snapped her staff back together. He hands her her gun, too, and she clips it back into its holster before standing back up.

“The Egyptians,” Angela says, watching as he picks up his friend, passing over a standard American-issue pulse rifle that matches the one hanging off a strap at his side. “They’ve got a rendezvous point, one that we can make before your friends light this place up to take care of Pinocchio back there.”

The soldier smiles, and it looks horrible, all cracking dried blood against smears of dirt and too-white teeth. “Well, then, lay on, MacDuff.”

_And damn’d be him that first cries, ‘Hold, enough,’_ Angela thinks, before leading them out.

 

~~~

 

Gabe catapults awake with a scream in a room that looks absolutely nothing like the blood-soaked warzone he lost conscious in.

It’s not that he’s complaining, exactly—most of that blood had been his, after all—but he’s in a new place, he doesn’t know how the fuck he got there, and he can’t find Jack. The first two are enough to make him start tugging at the wires stuck to his chest, and the third gets him to start looking for exits and defensible points. The screaming, he notices off-hand, has not had the decency to stop, his body freaking out in a completely different direction than his mind.

The door slams open—as much as something on sliders can slam—a few seconds later, and there’s Jack, looking like hell, still dressed in the same clothes he’d been wearing when Gabe last saw him, dirt and all.

Gabe sucks in a long breath, and lets it out in a quiet rush, his body finally catching up with his head.

“Sorry for the ruckus, Jack,” he rasps, his throat dry. “You know how it gets.”

Jack visibly relaxes, his shoulders dropping to let sunlight creep in from the window behind him. “Yeah, Gabe, I know how it gets. You feeling alright?”

“Feel like someone blew up a car with me in it—oh, _wait_ —but not like I’m dying,” Gabe replies, shifting himself so he’s sitting up against the pillows instead of laying flat on his back. “How long have I been in here?”

“Day, day and a half,” Jack says, coming into the room and sliding the door shut behind him. “You were touch and go there for a bit, could have sworn I lost you, but they dragged you back into the light.”

Gabe smiles thinly. “Gotta thank ol’ SEP for something, right?”

“Not on your life,” Jack mutters, before giving him a hard look. “Which, you numbskull, like I just said, it very nearly was, no thanks to SEP necessary. The UN had someone out there from Medecins Sans Frontieres in experimental tech, you've got her to thank for keeping your ass together long enough for me to haul you out to a rendezvous.”

“Huh,” Gabe says, and then, “experimental tech?”

Jack hums in agreement. “Your angel? Tap-danced her way through the sky to distract a Titan, then came and got us once our side decided they’d had enough and loaded up the WH-413s.”

“Nice to know someone’s looking out for us,” he says, shifting again as the twinge in his left side edges out the twinge in his right for Worst Thing He’s Ever Felt. “Since Uncle Sam couldn’t give less of a fuck if we blow up or not—or, hell, if we blow up multiple times in the same hour, whatever, at least our dismembered meat chunks will cost them a billion dollars or so a pop, we can host a benefit.”

“Classy.”

“Hooah.”

 

~~~

 

Jack’s, well.

Jack's relieved, for starters, because he's visiting Gabe in a hospital bed instead of a morgue slab, even though he'd looked dead set— _hah_ — on chatting it up with Saint Peter for a bit there. The angel that had dragged them out of the wreckage—Angela Ziegler, he'd learned, and didn't that just fucking figure— had beelined them straight to the Egyptian Army’s outpost just outside the city line, dodging stray omnics with an almost uncanny precision.

The Egyptians had taken one look at Gabe, grabbed Angela and her staff, and rushed them both into what had to be the only freestanding building left in the area. Jack...had not been allowed in after them, never mind that he’d asked, several times, with varying degrees of politeness. Finally, they’d sent one of their commanding officers, one Captain Amari, to essentially sit on his chest and tell him, in no uncertain terms that Gabe’s going to be fine, that _Jack_ is going to be fine, and would he please shut the hell up before she has to do something drastic, like deck him.

Jack had almost pointed out that, with all the shit SEP had pumped into him, there was no guarantee that decking him would have any effect, but Captain Amari looked like the kind of person who’d take that into advisement and deck him anyway, just for the hell of it. Besides, he didn’t need to share the fact that he was one of Uncle Sam’s guinea pigs with anyone who didn’t already know.

Made things easier that way.

Besides, Gabe’s all good, for all that he looks like death warmed over with a faulty hot-plate: pale and clammy and somehow crispy around the edges. The waking terrors are even a relief, for all they’re shit to watch him go through, because that means Gabe’s awake and aware enough to know how shit things were, and how shit things are likely to continue to be.

It’s a lot of shit, is what Jack means, but it’s Gabe’s shit, so he’s glad to have it.

After he wakes up for the first time, Jack almost relaxes enough to leave the makeshift hospital. He makes it to a bank of communal showers, at least, and finally manages to scrub off most of Gabe’s blood. There are places though, at the corners of his thumbnails, in the creases by his eyes, that he can’t quite get clean, not even after three rinses. His clothes are almost beyond saving, but an orderly is able to scrounge up a set of bright blue scrubs for him, and takes Jack’s clothes—once they’ve been emptied of all the odds and ends Jack keeps on him—to be washed.

He ends up back in Gabe’s room in less than two hours, but at least he looks and smells like a person now, instead of a corpse that’d gotten turned around on the way to the morgue. Gabe’s edging his way back towards the living as well, sleep and the IV in his arm bringing back color to his skin, making him look less brittle.

Angela Ziegler edges her way into the room a little after dinner’s delivered by a nurse in full camo—Jack wolfs his down like he’s never seen food before, Gabe has yet to wake up again—and settles in a chair by the door.

“You’re looking well, Herr Soldat,” she says in a low voice, not quite a whisper. “Less Nosferatu, more all-American.”

“Apple pie all the way,” Jack says, watching Gabe’s chest go up and down a few more times, before turning to face her. “Jack Morrison, United States Army, when they’ll claim me.”

“Angela Ziegler, Medecins Sans Frontieres, when they’re not tossing me to the United Nations,” she says in return. “Your friend—”

“—Gabriel Reyes, also US Army, also occasionally _persona non grata_ —”

“—doing okay?” she finishes with a smile.

“Peachy keen,” Jack says. “Doc says he’ll be up and bitching about pulling KP duty in a week or so, and he’s got six or so new scars to show the folks on base. How’s Pinocchio?”

Angela grimaces. “Your lot hit it with three or four WH-413s, and the Swedes finished it off with some modified tank or something. The city’s mostly destroyed, though, and the Titan finally went down in the river, which means that either they’re going to have to risk bringing a few more up this close to the God Program to try and move it, or just get used to their new landmark.”

The WH-413s weren’t a surprise—Angela had mentioned them back in the city, and they were SOP for American engagement with Titans—but…

“The Swedes?” Jack’s never heard of a Swedish omnium, with most of the northern omnic output coming from St. Petersburg. Doesn’t mean they can’t have as much of a stake in this worldwide shitshow, but it’s interesting that they’ve got a tank that can take down a Titan that a handful of WH-413s couldn’t handle.

“Mmhmm,” Angela hums. “Some R&D guy brought it down from Germany, said it had been tested in Stuttgart, wanted to try it against something bigger than a Bastion unit.”

Jack whistles, long and low.

Taking down a Bastion unit is a bitch and a half by itself—case in point: half the fighting he and Gabe had been mixed up in in the city—but to jump from a nine-foot-tall omnic to one the size of a skyscraper is _impressive_ , to say the very fucking least, and to do it with a _tank_...

It changes things.

 

~~~

 

Gabriel Reyes, Angela learns, once he’s finally conscious and out from under the influence of painkillers, is an asshole.

Oh, he’s fine when Jack’s in the room, restrained in a way that makes her think he’s aware of how abrasive he can be and is trying for Jack’s sake to tone it down. When Jack’s not there, though, it’s like he forgets—or rather, Angela thinks, that he _remembers_ that he’s supposed to be a terrible person, and terrible people, in Gabriel Reyes’ mind, let the people around them know they’re terrible from minute one.

She’s got no idea _why_ —she’s a medical and research doctor, dammit, not a psychiatrist—but the fact remains that Reyes insists on being a sarcastic, borderline rude cretin of a man, and it tends to bring out the worst in her.

“If you can’t kill them with kindness, beat them at their own game,” Mei says when Angela calls from an unused room on her third day on lock-down with the Egyptians in their field hospital.

“Yeah,” Angela replies, spinning the desk chair that made up one-third of the furniture in the room in slow, lazy circles. “Except Reyes’ game is to be as unpleasant as possible, and I _do_ want to make friends here—”

“One friend,” Mei interrupts, with a raised eyebrow.

“ _Friends_ ,” Angela says, with exaggerated emphasis on the plural. “And I can’t do that if I spend half my time thinking up _sly digs_.”

Mei rolls her eyes. “Says who? Look, Angie, you’re my friend and I love you, but honestly? You say Reyes is a dick? Be a dick right back, show him _you don’t care_. He’s terrible, but he’s not outright _insulting_ , as far as I can tell, which means that he’s not doing it to be _mean_ , per se, he’s doing it to protect something, probably himself. Or Morrison.”

Angela groans. “You’re an _environmental scientist_ , Mei, why do you sound like you know what you’re talking about?”

Mei laughs. “Because I know people, and I used to read psych textbooks for fun in college. Plus, also, I’ve been stationed with eleven other people on a very small base in Antarctica for the last five months, you almost have to be able to read between the lines of people’s behavior to avoid a bloodbath.”

“Gah,” Angela says eloquently

 

~~~

 

All in all, Angela, Jack, and Reyes are stuck with the Egyptians for about a week and a half.

Reyes is recovering, Jack refuses to leave him, and Angela, as a civilian, is _strongly discouraged_ from leaving before the Germans, Americans, and Chinese give the all-clear from the mop-up that’s currently going on outside. The Titan had gone down, but the individual Bastion units still had to be neutralized and the restraints on the God Program up at the Omnium checked over for the five thousandth time.

Angela has to keep herself from laughing herself sick when Captain Amari first tells her how very, very bad the Egyptian Army would feel if she went out alone, considering they’d been all too willing to send her out wearing wings and a halo to play peek-a-boo with Pinocchio.

From the slight cant of Captain Amari’s eyebrows as she relays the information, she’s well aware of the irony. Jack and Angela pass the time by playing endless rounds of cards, the deck pulled worn and dirty from the pile of Reyes’ effects. It’s gin, to start, then gin rummy, war, a lopsided set of canasta, anything and everything they can remember from long nights at the front facing an enemy that can turn anything made of metal into a spy.

Reyes joins them as an occasional and slightly loopy third, his recovery going well in general, but also going sideways in unexpected ways. His bones are almost completely healed in a concerningly short period, whereas the internal injuries take an almost comically long time in comparison.

Jack shrugs when she mentions it, eyes blank, and Reyes just snorts derisively.

“Fucking SEP, man,” he says, by way of explanation, then, “Go fucking fish, Ziegler.”

She picks up the nine of hearts and doesn’t bring it up again.

 

~~~

 

Angela leaves the hospital in the care of a Peacekeeper escort once the all-clear is given. Jack and Reyes stay behind, partly because they’re waiting on Reyes to make a little more progress on his injuries, and partly because their ride isn’t due to be back in the area for another few days.

They give her both of their phone numbers, though, and a standing invitation to visit them if she ever makes it over to America. Captain Amari does almost the exact same, except her number comes on the back of a picture of her daughter, and her invitation is for a hole-in-the-wall in downtown Cairo that she promises has the best lamb Angela will ever have.

 

~~~

 

Six months later, while she’s reading an e-mail from Jack, a call comes through from the UN, talking about some newfangled paramilitary-type thing to help with the fallout from the Crisis, inviting her to take part.

“Who’s part of this?” she asks, rubbing sleep from her eyes. It’s 0500 in Zurich, and she hasn’t quite woken up all the way.

“Oxton out of the UK, Lindholm from Sweden, Wilhelm from Germany, Lacroix from France, those are the big names we’ve got so far,” says the voice on the phone. “We’re working on Morrison and Reyes from the Americans, Amari from the Egyptians, and Zhou from China. I don’t know if you know them offhand, but I can assure you, it’s a truly international effort, Doctor Ziegler, all the best minds—”

A ping comes through on her computer. _Overwatch?_ says the message, blinking next to Jack’s name.

“I’ll think about it,” Angela says, “and get back to you.”

 

~~~

 

The last time he sees her, she’s screaming and bloody, the wings on her back crumpled and shorting out, throwing sparks that threaten to burn the skin left exposed by the missing pieces in the Valkyrie suit. Jack’s in front of her, lying limply in a broken heap like a ragdoll, head bloody.

And Gabe...Gabe’s gone, like a ghost on the wind.

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline-wise, this is set pre-Recall, pre-Golden Age, in the thick of the Omnic Crisis. This also assumes (contrary, I believe, to canon) that the OC was treated as a truly global crisis, with multiple foreign military and aid units working together to take down various Omniums and so forth on a regular basis. Therefore, Jack and Gabe are affiliated with the United States military, Ana with the Egyptian military, and Angela's on loan from MSF to the UN Peacekeepers. It also assumes (again, contrary to canon) that everyone met during—and was involved in—the Omnic Crisis before being picked out of their various units by the UN to form Overwatch after the crisis was over, instead of being formed by the UN specifically to participate in the crisis itself. 
> 
> Location-wise, it's mostly set somewhere in Eastern Europe, near Odessa in the Ukraine. No actual towns were harmed or researched for the purposes of this fic.
> 
> In the section where Ana and Angela speak, Angela speaks English with some German for the most part, and Ana is all English, except for the end part, where Ana says “understood” in German, and Angela repeats it back to her in Arabic. This was taken from astronauts aboard the ISS—where the official languages are Russian and English—and their custom of having native English speakers speak Russian, and native Russian speakers speak English, the reasoning being you talk slower, you make sure the person truly understands, nobody dies in vacuum—or, in this case, gets blown up by American missiles because they missed their rendezvous.
> 
> You may note that Gabe has a pulse rifle instead of dual shotguns, and that's 98% because dual shotguns are literally the worst to be wielding ever, but most especially in a war period. Angela's suit also has a few tweaks you may or may not notice, in that I envisioned the Valkyrie suit as being full body, with none of this skirt nonsense. 
> 
> TL;DR: I'm taking the game’s relation to “true events” like I take Captain America's USO show’s relation to the “truth” of WWII: with a grain of salt, and 75% less tights. 
> 
> As I am simply a humble gal with maybe 35% fluency in a language other than English (and that language is neither German nor Arabic) and access to Google Translate, please feel free to let me know if any of the non-English words or phrases in this are wrong. 
> 
> The Shakespeare Jack quotes is _The Tempest_ and _Macbeth_ , in that order.
> 
> Last note: Yes, the American missiles are pronounced “WHALES”, catch me after school for some more dope literary puns and allusions. Also, I almost had Gabe call Jack “Juanito” in the hospital section before I laughed, cried, and said “no, never, not in a million years.”


End file.
